The New Canterbury Tales: The Scholar's Tale
by TeresaC
Summary: Finally the guys get to hear Methos's story of Ibn Fahdlan. This follows The Student's Tale. Not yet complete.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is the fourth story in a cycle. The first three are The Warrior's Tale, The Watcher's Tale, and The Student's Tale. In order, they are story IDs 2355715, 2366224, and 2488083. All of my stories can be found at my website, The Keep.

Disclaimers: Nothing about Highlander: The Series is mine. It all belongs to Davis/Panzer Productions, so far as I know. This story also owes much to The Thirteenth Warrior and to Beowulf, neither of which are mine, either.

Rated K

_The Scholar's Tale_

"The Vikings, or Rus, as Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan knew them, traveled thousands of miles on inland riverways. They were well known in the area of the Black Sea, for instance. Of course, even that was a little too far north for Ibn Fahdlan. But he had had the bad judgment to be caught in bed with the wrong woman. The woman's husband wanted him executed, but the Caliph, who had had some reason to be grateful to Ibn Fahdlan for his service as a scholar, instead made him ambassador to Bulgharia."

"Bulgaria?" Joe asked.

"Not that one. Bulgharia. Much further north, deep in the wild forests of Rus-land. He might as well have been banished to the end of the earth. He certainly felt he had."

"Do you mean Russia?" Richie asked. "What was so bad about that?"

"It was uncivilized. No music or literature. Think of it like this. If you lived somewhere warm and comfy where the women all went around in belly-dancing costumes, would you want to trade it for a cold place where the women are buried in furs, and mostly you only get to see the men anyway because there's so much fighting to be done?"

"Oh," said Richie wisely. "You mean like Scotland."

Joe snorted. MacLeod gave Richie a glare. Richie grinned.

"Yeah," said Methos. "Only more trees and not so much golf."

"Go on," MacLeod said.

Methos smiled. "He didn't meet the Rus right away. He traveled with a caravan headed … I don't remember where, right now. They were attacked somewhere in the steppes by bandits. They were on a wide open plain with no cover and no way to outrun the bandits. The bandits were Tartars, which was really bad. They never left anyone alive. The caravan leader bolted in the direction of the only river, and Ibn Fahdlan followed, sure that his short career as an ambassador was about to meet a bloody end."

Methos shook his head. "He really should have kept it in his pants.

"They reached the river and were about to force their terrified mounts into the deep current, when around the bend of the river came a Rus longship. Beautiful high prow, carved like a serpent. Broad, flat base for shallow beaches. Made of strong oak, with round shields hanging on the sides. The Tartars saw the ship - and, to Ahmed's surprise, turned and fled.

"The Rus hove to and disembarked on a broad strand. They showed no interest in the vanishing Tartars, nor in Ibn Fahdlan's caravan as they set up a camp. Ahmed found himself fascinated by them. What tremendous warriors they must be to strike such fear into the Tartars!

"His caravan leader was reluctant to stop nearby for the night. He wanted to put distance between himself and the bandits. He also didn't trust the Rus.

"'Are they dangerous?' Ahmed asked.

"'Hard to say. Sometimes. Sometimes not. Best to leave them alone.'

"But with a strange sense of fate gripping him, Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan said farewell to the caravan and camped nearby, alone. He was intensely curious, and already admired these men very much."

"Not what I heard," said MacLeod.

"I haven't got there yet," Methos retorted.

"The Rus lit fires and began singing and drinking. Ahmed screwed up his courage and approached their camp. No one stopped him, though he looked very different than the long haired, bare headed Rus in their leather and furs. He wore his black robes and a black headdress. Ahmed was good with languages, and he hoped that the Rus might speak a language similar to something he knew.

"They didn't. Their language lilted and rasped, and he didn't recognize a single word. A few of them tried to speak to him, in a suspicious, drunken way, but no one truly challenged him. He was even offered a drink, which he refused, being a good follower of the Prophet.

"Before too long, three friends grouped around him, drinking and asking him questions. One of them fingered the cloth of his robe and made a rude joke. Everyone laughed. Ahmed tried out a few languages on them, and one man brightened. His name was Herger, and he spoke Greek.

"'Now we're getting somewhere,' thought Ibn Fahdlan. 'I should present myself to their chieftain. It's only proper.'

"'May I speak to your …" he hesitated, then decided that vainglorious warriors would give themselves important titles, "king?'

"Herger grinned, and translated the question for his companions. All three men laughed.

"'Certainly,' said Herger, his eyes twinkling with mirth. 'We put him in that tent.'

"Ahmed looked at the small tent the man indicated. He looked back at the men who watched him merrily.

"Ahmed didn't much like being laughed at. He gathered his dignity and turned toward the tent. 'Let us know if he talks to you,' Herger said, chuckling. He said something in the Rus language and all three men laughed heartily again.

"Ahmed turned to look back, and met the Northman's gaze steadily. Herger burst out laughing again.

"'He's dead! His spirit is bound for Valhalla!' He spoke the last word with gusto, and the others echoed him.

"'Valhalla!' they cried, raising their drinks in the air.

"'Valhalla!' answered the whole host.

"Herger's laughing companions moved off into the crowd, telling the joke to others, Ahmed was sure, by the way their listeners looked at him and laughed.

"Ahmed was a little shocked. 'This is a funeral?' he asked Herger, who still smirked at him, but had not left him.

'Tomorrow you can talk to the king,' Herger said. He pointed through the crowd at a blond well-built man with deep set, narrow eyes, and a broad forehead, who appeared to be enjoying himself as much as the others. 'One of his sons will be king after we have sent Hygiliak's body to Valhalla, tonight.'

"Abruptly the singing stopped as loud arguing broke out between two men. The others hushed and turned. Herger looked as well, as the blond man he had pointed to abruptly drew a huge sword and gutted the other man. The corpse fell back among the revelers.

"A silence followed, then the music began. The gathering relaxed and began again to drink. Two women dragged the corpse outside.

"Herger turned back to Ahmed. 'Buliwyf will be king,' he commented, and took a deep drink from the animal horn which held his liquor.

"Much later in the night, after the wheel of the stars had rotated overhead, and the cold air had turned damp with the promise of morning dew, Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan witnessed the proper funeral rite of the Rus for their kings. 'It is the old way,' Herger told him. 'You will not see this again.'

"The body, wrapped in cloth, was carried to a small ship. People brought offerings of gifts and placed them on the ship. A woman, dressed in white, who looked drugged, to Ahmed's eyes, was lifted up in the air by the crowd and lowered again, repeatedly. With each elevation she called out a line of ancient verses into the pre-dawn, and Herger translated.

'Behold, I see my father and mother. I see all my dead relatives seated. I see my master seated in Valhalla and Valhalla is beautiful and green. With him are men and boy servants. He calls me. Take me to him.'

"'She will travel with him,' Herger said.

"Ahmed looked at the ship. 'To Valhalla?' he asked, puzzled. He had thought Valhalla to be an afterlife.

"Herger nodded. Then, to Ahmed's horror, the gathering placed the woman beside the dead king, and an elderly woman stabbed her to death as the gathering beat their swords on their shields. Then the met brought forward torches and set the ship ablaze.

"'That's … you can't …'" Herger's previously cheerful countenance turned dark.

"Show some respect, Arab."

"'Show respect … me?' Ahmed almost sputtered, he was so angry. He searched for the Greek words and found them.

"'Human sacrifice,' he spat, and walked away, into the darkness.

"He slept uneasily in his own tent and after a few hours he emerged into a morning only half over. Daylight made the night's events seem dreamlike and Ahmed found he was still interested in learning about the Rus, though he was having second thoughts about asking to travel with them. He decided he would seek out some breakfast with them and then try to catch his caravan up.

"To his surprise, he saw a second ship beached beside the first. This Rus ship, like the first, had a high proud bow, only this one was carved in the shape of a ram's head.

"Ahmed entered the Rus tent cautiously, and realized at once that the festive atmosphere of the night's funeral was gone. The Rus, their women, and their slaves sat or stood attentively, facing away from Ahmed's entrance. At the far side of the tent, Ahmed saw Buliwyf, seated on a raised chair, leaning forward to hear the words of a blond young man – a boy, almost – who spoke at length.

"A few people glanced at him as he shouldered his way to Herger's side, but, like the night before, no one challenged or halted him.

"Herger's smile of greeting was warm, if a little haggard-looking, and Ahmed guessed that few of the Rus had slept yet. He was relieved that Herger didn't seem hostile, considering how they had parted.

"'What's going on?' he asked.

"'The son of Hrothgar has come to ask Buliwyf for help. His father's kingdom is under attack,' Herger said.

"'Near here?'

"'Back in our lands.' Herger shook his head and Ahmed subsided, to let Herger hear more.

"Herger's eyes widened at something the boy said, and all around them was a nervous rustling. Ahmed studied the faces of these large, strong men and saw fear there.

"'What is it?' he whispered.

"'His father's kingdom is threatened by ...' Ahmed would have taken Herger's hesitation as uncertainty with the language, but something in his expression told him that Herger didn't want to finish. ' ...an ancient evil,' he said with an uneasy glance at his nearest comrades.

"The other Rus paid him no mind; Ahmed was quite sure no one else spoke Greek, and they were all enthralled by the tale the boy was telling.

"When the boy finished, a sigh went through the gathering. Ahmed again saw that look of fear as men avoided each other's eyes, or met them a little too defiantly. He wondered what tale could so frighten such fearsome men.

"For a while there was silence. Then Buliwyf spoke.

"'He calls for the Angel of Death,' Herger translated.

"'For the what!'

"'Hush.'

"An old crone hobbled through the crowd, which parted uneasily before her. She leaned heavily on the arm of an adolescent girl dressed in thick furs. The crone's hood covered her face, and long strings of gray hair draped down from inside the hood. Ahmed recognized her as the woman who had slain the sacrifice the night before.

"She hunched over before Buliwyf and threw down an animal skin. Onto the skin she tossed some stones carved with symbols. Ahmed realized she must be an oracle.

"As oracles went, she had very little ceremony. Ahmed had seen Seers spend hours in a trance interpreting signs. This woman spoke immediately in a high, shrill voice. The faces of the men hearing her showed the age-old distrust of warriors for the supernatural, mixed with a healthy dose of respect.

"'She says thirteen men must go to the aid of Hrothgar,' Herger said, his eyes sparkling. 'The number of the moons in a year.' He looked around the room with an eager anticipation. The mood of the crowd shifted to one of excitement.

"'Hver vilja vera the fyrstur maður?' she called out."

MacLeod glanced at Methos as the older immortal spoke the Rus language, the words rolling sonorously from his throat.

Joe and Richie grinned at each other.

Methos went on.

"'Who will be the first man?' Herger translated.

"Buliwyf, the new king, placed his hand over his heart, and bowed his head as if he had received a high honor.

"'ÉG vilja vera the fyrstur maður,' he said solemnly.

"'Buliwyf, of course,' said Herger, grinning. Loud cheering filled the tent.

"'Hver vilja vera the second maður?' asked the old woman.

"A tall dark man, dressed in black furs, stood up.

"'ÉG vilja vera the second maður,' he proclaimed. More cheering followed and people congratulated him."

"Hey," Richie said. "I think I saw this movie."

"Hush, you," said Methos.

"'One after another, warriors stood and volunteered to go to Hrothgar's aid. The dark man who volunteered second was Edgtho. His brother Roneth stood next. Then came Ragnar and Helfdane, and Rethel, the archer, whose gray braids reached his waist. Ahmed watched with interest as the most powerful looking men in the company stood and swore to follow Buliwyf to rescue Hrothgar's kingdom. Ahmed saw none of the fear which the "ancient evil" had caused at first - not until the eleventh man, Skeld, a red-haired man with an interlocking pattern tattooed across his nose and cheekbones. As he stood to declare 'ÉG vilja vera the ellefti maður,' he looked pale and he did not smile, not even when his companions shook him in welcome congratulations.

"Herger, too, watched and cheered.

"'Are you going?' Ibn Fahdlan asked him.

"'Just waiting to see who my companions would be,' Herger told him, grinning, as he got to his feet and loudly claimed the twelfth place.

"The cheers for him were raucous, particularly from the other volunteers. But, where before, the old woman had called out for the next volunteer, now her shrill voice spoke other words. Silence gradually fell over the whole gathering, and the hair stood up on Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan's arms. He realized that all eyes had turned to him.

"Buliwyf spoke - to him, it seemed - and Ahmed recognized the word 'ahrahb.' He looked to Herger, who wore a bemused expression.

"'She says that the thirteenth man must be no Northman,' Herger said.

"With growing alarm, Ahmed asked 'What does that mean?'

"'Your luck runs high today, little brother. You must be our last man.'

"Appalled, Ahmed protested. 'I am a scholar,' he told Herger. 'I am not a warrior.'

"Herger shrugged, enjoying Ahmed's discomfort. 'Soon you will be,' he said.

"Ibn Fahdlan was alone, his caravan long gone. Though he tried to protest, Herger conveniently forgot how to speak Greek, and Ahmed saw that he had no hope of resisting if these men were determined to bring him with them. He chose the more dignified option and co-operated.

"Buliwyf preferred his own ship so he transferred those of his party who were staying behind to the ram-headed ship, and the thirteen warriors and their horses boarded the one with the snake head. Ahmed took his tent and bedroll, but his horse, a beautiful gray Arabian stallion, balked at boarding the ship."

"He had an Arabian," MacLeod said, admiration and nostalgia in his voice.

"Of course," Methos said.

"What was the horse's name?" MacLeod asked.

Methos gave him a curious look. "Why?"

"Just wondered."

Methos frowned for a moment, then his face cleared. "Arifah," he said.

MacLeod nodded.

"Ahmed finally coaxed him aboard - without a single hand on the bridle, by the way: he was an intelligent, devoted creature.

"Across forests of demons and rivers of monsters they journeyed. They reached the land of the Bulghars, that Ahmed had believed was the end of the earth, and still they journeyed farther north. In Bulgharia, Ahmed considered jumping ship and completing his duty as ambassador, but the prospect of being hunted down and carried back to the ship over the shoulder of an immense Northman was too humiliating. These men were much larger than he was.

"As they traveled, Ahmed kept to himself. He did not speak their language and he would not imbibe their mead . . ." Here Methos took a deep draught of beer and the host lumbered to his feet good-naturedly to refill it. "but he spent his time listening to their speech. Occasionally Herger could be persuaded to translate or explain a thing or two, but Herger preferred the raucous company of his other companions. Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan had never felt so alone.

"It was funny, though, the day he spoke in their language for the first time. Rethel had told some story about a dark skinned whore who 'looked like that one's mother' and Ahmed spoke up. 'My mother,' he said, and everyone looked at him in shock, 'was a pure woman. And I at least know who my father was . . .' He should have stopped there, but I'm afraid that guy had only contempt for the Rus, by then. 'you, pig-eating son of a whore,' he finished."

Methos leaned back in his chair, grinning. There were some chuckles around the table. "How did that go over?" Joe asked.

"Between Rethel being insulted and the more paranoid in the group demanding to know how long he had understood their language, Ahmed very nearly got the stuffing kicked out of him. Only two men didn't jump on him: Buliwyf who often sat kind of brooding, listening to the stories, and Herger who laughed so hard he fell off his seat. It was Herger's laughing that defused the incipient mayhem - that and the fact that the new king didn't dive in with them."

"I swear I saw this movie," Richie said. "I can't remember the name of it."

"Mac told you, his journal survives. Let me finish the story," Methos said.

MacLeod shook his head. "Not this much of the journal survives. Do they end up in Denmark?"

"No, in Sweden. Why?"

"I thought it might be Beowulf. You mentioned Hrothgar, and I recognized the dead king's name, too."

Methos spread his hands, palms up, on the table. "May I finish my story or would you like to?"

"Go on, go on," said MacLeod.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimers in part 1

"The Rus loved to sing and tell stories. Roneth was their best storyteller, but he could no longer sing. His throat had been damaged in a battle, so sometimes they would call on Ahmed to sing. Their hunger for music was so strong, they would even listen attentively when he sang in his own language, for he didn't know any of their songs.

"As they traveled, Ahmed kept a journal. Whenever he would write in it, the Rus would move away from him or avoid him. Except for Herger, and sometimes, Buliwyf. Ahmed began to have trouble keeping it dry. This had never been a difficulty in his land, but the rivers and the weather meant they all spent a lot of time drenched. Herger found him a sealskin and showed him how to wrap his journal against the wet.

"'What are they afraid of?' Ahmed asked Herger.

"'Sorcery,' said Herger. 'Our writing is magical.' He used the Greek word for writing, as if even saying the word in the Rus language had power. Which might be the case, Ahmed reflected. He had nothing but contempt for these men's superstitions. A good Muslim had only Allah to fear, and belief in magic charms was prohibited. 'Buliwyf is interested in your writing,' Herger said. 'Think what you will say to him when he asks you. And, a word of warning -- he's smart. Don't try to bullshit him.'"

"He didn't say that," Richie said.

Methos shrugged with a grin. "Something like that."

"Buliwyf stopped Ahmed one evening in the forest where Ahmed had been gathering firewood. Startled to see him there, Ahmed almost dropped his armful of wood.

"'You can draw sounds,' Buliwyf said. Buliwyf rarely spoke directly to Ahmed. Ahmed had to consider for a moment what the man meant. Even Buliwyf avoided using the word for writing, he realized, which was just as well, since Herger hadn't taught it to him.

"'Yes, I can,' Ahmed said. He set his armful of wood down. Herger had warned him that this would be an important conversation, so it seemed disrespectful to clutch at the wood during it.

"'And you can speak them back again,' Buliwyf said, his brooding countenance unreadable.

"'Yes.'

"'Show me.'

"So Ahmed found a stick and drew in the sand. Buliwyf watched him, aloof and superior, but with one hand he held the pendant he wore around his neck.

"'There is no god but Allah,' Ahmed read to him, 'and Mohammed is His prophet.'

"Buliwyf studied the letters carefully, then rubbed them out with his foot. 'Your words mean nothing,' he said, and left.

"Ahmed shrugged and gathered the wood again. It was almost dark, and he had no desire to be caught in the inky northern forests by himself away from the light and laughter of his companions.

"A week or so later, Buliwyf stopped him on a beachy river bank. 'Ahrab, say what I draw,' he said. With the tip of his dagger he carved the curved letters Ahmed had shown him. He did this in full view of the others, some of whom made furtive warding off spells with their hands when they saw what he did.

"Buliwyf seemed in a cheerful, almost playful mood, but something glinted in his deep set eyes as he regarded Ahmed, and Ahmed remembered Herger's warning. He looked at the letters. From one example, Buliwyf had recreated the letters almost perfectly. Almost. He wondered if he dared insult this giant of a man by correcting him.

"'There is no god but . . .' Ahmed couldn't bear it. The imperfect letters were in the name of God. He reached down with his finger and corrected the name. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Skeld, the superstitious, beat a retreat to the boat, trying to look unconcerned. Herger approached, but stayed back, watching. '. . .Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet.' The words in the Rus language sounded harsh, and Ahmed bowed his head under a wave of homesickness.

"When he could look up at Buliwyf, he saw the man look satisfied with something. He smiled and walked away. Herger came up and regarded the letters. He, at least, did not look afraid of the writing. 'Why does he ask me this?' Ahmed asked him.

"Herger shrugged, smiling. 'Perhaps he has found a use for you, little brother. The songs of a man's heroic deeds live after he has departed, but writing could live forever, or so he thinks.' This time Herger used the word which meant writing in the Rus language.

"Eventually, they reached the sea. Ahmed had been at sea before, but this sea he had only heard stories about."

"The Atlantic," Joe said.

"Uh huh. The Baltic, anyway. What really unnerved Ibn Fahdlan was that the Rus were willing to sail out of sight of shore, sometimes for days. He wasn't used to that. And he got seasick, too."

"Can you really get to Sweden from the steppes on rivers?" Joe asked.

Methos nodded. "If you know the way.

"They approached Hrothgar's land from the sea. It was very misty, so Ahmed couldn't see much, but he knew the danger of sailing shallows in poor visibility. The men with him grew quiet, and some of them began to work their magic charms in knotted ropes. Ahmed had almost forgotten how spooked their company had been, back on that first day when they heard about the "ancient evil" that threatened Hrothgar. Nowhere on the journey had he heard them discuss the journey's end.

"Edgtho, Buliwyf's lieutenant of sorts, hailed the land, calling into the mist. Rethel shot flaming arrows into the mist and some of them hit land and burned as a beacon so they didn't steer too near the rocky shore.

"Finally a voice called back, answering Edgtho. It sounded eerie and disembodied, but the Rus on the ship set about preparing to beach the ship. The voice in the mist gave them instructions and led them to a safe harbor. With the ship safely moored, the owner of the voice appeared. An old man on an old horse, carrying a standard. He was unarmed and addressed them imperiously. 'What is your name and purpose?' he demanded.

"Skeld and Edgtho reached reflexively for their weapons, muttering. But Buliwyf answered calmly. 'I am Buliwyf, son of Hygiliak. We send greetings to your noble lord. We come in the name of Wulfgar, his son.' At this, the herald turned his horse to show them his back and rode away.

"The twelve warriors and Ahmed gathered their things and led their horses off the ship. They had been at sea for three days, and the horses were ill. The Rus rode their unhappy mounts away from the shore anyway, but Ahmed led Arifah on foot. 'Why do you not ride, Arab?' asked Roneth. Ahmed gave him no answer. Most of the other Rus ignored him, but their sick mounts could go no faster than Ahmed could walk, so he kept up without difficulty. Most of the Rus, he observed, watched the woods warily and there was little talking.

"Ahmed, ever curious, asked Herger, 'Who is Wulfgar?'

"Herger responded irritably, 'Are you never silent? Tell me why you walk by your horse like a slave and I will answer your question.'

"Ahmed shrugged, 'The Prophet, peace be upon him, requires his followers to be not cruel to animals. My horse is ill, as yours is. Who is Wulfgar?'

"'Wulfgar was the son of Hrothgar who came to ask Buliwyf's help. You saw him.'

"Indeed, Ahmed remembered the scene well, but it had happened before he understood the Rus language. 'Why did he not return with us?' he asked.

"'He is a hostage,' Herger replied. 'When Buliwyf sends word that our mission here is no trap, the boy will be freed. Now ask me no more questions.'

"Ahmed reflected that the Rus, for all their talk of heroes and filial loyalty, must have some -- trust issues.

"Herger moved ahead, where the warriors were discussing something in low tones. They were observing the condition of the fences and buildings that now came into view. The mist had lifted as they left the seashore, and Ahmed could see some fields, stock yards and wooden hovels with turf for roofs.

"The people in the fields looked bedraggled and poor, to Ahmed's eyes, but even peasants where he was from had cloth to wear. These people wore skins and wool.

"'Old men,' Edgtho muttered to Buliwyf, 'and women.'

"'Children,' Buliwyf added, regarding the somber faces and frightened eyes of the children who stopped working to watch the warriors pass. All the Rus warriors took in the shambled fences and unguarded peasants with unease.

"'Where are the men?' asked Ahmed.

"His question heightened the tension among the others. No one answered, so Ahmed looked at Herger. Herger rolled his eyes at him.

"They found the old man, the herald who had challenged them in the fjord, waiting for them at the bottom of the steps to Hrothgar's hall. This building dominated the side of a steep hill, almost a crag, and the fields and flocks they had passed were spread at its stone feet. The Hall, though worn and in need of some cosmetic repairs, was grand, and to Ahmed, who had seen no imposing structures built by the hand of man in many months, it looked quite magnificent. But Buliwyf and the others scowled at the grounds, and Ahmed realized they were unhappy with the timber palisade, the Hall's only fortification, that stood broken and rotten around the building.

"The herald led them into Hrothgar's hall, a large stone vault with a fire pit running lengthwise down the middle. Long wood tables flanked this pit, and at the end of the room, on a raised dais, sat the king on a stone throne. Hrothgar was an old gray man, long past the heroic deeds of his youth. He sat, bent over even on his throne, a dusty cloak of fur weighing down his shoulders. On his head he wore a gold circlet. Beside him, hovering protectively, stood his daughter Weilow, as straight as he was bent. Her dark hair above her white woolen dress made her look like the thin stake of a burnt ash tree, after the forest fire had passed.

"'Buliwyf, son of Hygiliak,' the herald announced, his gray moustache vibrating with importance.

"'I know the man,' said Hrothgar, before the herald could continue. 'Knew him as a boy. Now he is grown to a man, a great hero.'

"Now as Ahmed's eyes adjusted to the gloom in the cavernous hall, he saw other figures to the sides of the dais and arrayed along the outside walls. The men in the shadows behind Hrothgar, stirred and murmured at the king's announcement. One of them, a blond man with a slighter build than many of the Rus and a weak chin, made a derisive snort as he whispered to a companion.

"Buliwyf clapped his sword hand over his heart and knelt, though his manner managed to be anything but servile. 'My sword is in your service, great king. Our fathers were fast friends.'

"'A feast then,' declared Hrothgar. 'In honor of Hygiliak and his son, Buliwyf.'

"With that, the people around them approached, offering the warriors drink and soft furs while others bustled to lay the long tables with a feast. Ahmed accepted the furs, but declined the drink. It was mead, of course.

"Buliwyf and his companions were seated in places of honor at the head of the two tables, and were well feasted. Ahmed excused himself before the host settled in for the meal. He had done his best to observe the times of prayer dictated by his faith, and if he was now to be in Hrothgar's land, he needed to find a private place where he would not become the butt of any more jokes. Assuming he needed to relieve himself, some of Hrothgar's people directed him to the back of the Hall.

"Behind the Hall of Hrothgar, Ahmed found kitchens and waterworks. The water used by the cooks, he was disappointed to see, came from a natural reservoir farther upslope. It was easily accessible from the surrounding forest by wildlife. The water there would not be considered pure for purposes of performing his ablutions."

"Ablutions?" asked Richie.

"It's a ritual washing Muslims perform before praying," MacLeod told him, only barely taking his gaze from the storyteller.

But Richie wasn't ready for the continuation of the story just yet. "Why wasn't the water pure?"

Methos put down the beer glass he'd taken a drink from. "If animals can use a stagnant water source, it's not considered pure enough for ablutions. You know, if they can piss in it." Methos grinned.

"But," Richie was still mulling this information over, "what about on the ship? They didn't let him wash with the drinking water, did they?"

"He used sea water. It's automatically pure. So, anyway, Ahmed --"

"But," interrupted Richie. Everyone looked at him expectantly and with a touch of irritation. "Don't the fish piss in it? The sea water?"

The other men laughed at his expression of embarrassed confusion. Richie blushed deeply.

"We need more beer," said the chuckling host, who went to draw another pitcher.

"I don't know, Rich," said Methos, his eyes twinkling. "It's just a rule. Sea water is okay, otherwise you need running water or water the animals can't get at. Ahmed had to climb up into the crags above the reservoir. He filled his flasks, performed his ablutions, and said his prayers. The point is, while he was up there, he looked around.

"He saw the ocean in the fjord, the coast beyond the fjord, and stretching behind Hrothgar's shining hall, to the east, the uplands and the forests beyond the tundra. To the west the rocky crags he clambered in became sheer cliffs with tiny round birds swooping in and out of their nests. Although the hour was very late, the sun still shone. It seemed to Ahmed that the sun moved around the sky, but remained always about the same height above the horizon. This he had only noticed since they left the dense forests for the northern sea. He found it very remarkable.

"As he descended back down to the hall, he met Edgtho and Herger coming out of the cooking stockyards. This surprised him. All of his companions loved merrymaking. He didn't expect any of them to miss a minute of it. These two looked serious, and Edgtho carried a sheathed sword in one hand in addition to his own on his back.

"'You were on the crag?' Edgtho asked.

"At Ahmed's assent, Herger asked, 'Will there be mist?'

"'Mist?' Ahmed repeated, puzzled.

"'Did you see any mist?' Herger urged. 'It would start about now if the night will be foggy.'

"'No,' Ahmed said. 'The evening looks fair.'

"The other two relaxed slightly, and Herger smiled. Edgtho, held out the sword in his hand to Ahmed. 'You'll need this,' he said. Then he brushed by Ahmed, heading up the crag to look for himself.

"Ahmed struggled to draw the sword. To him it was enormous. It stood as high as his shoulder from point to pommel. It was broad and flat, with edge on both sides and a faint pattern welding design -- an excellent Rus broadsword."

"What did the hilt look like?" MacLeod asked.

Methos smiled a knowing smile. "Oh, I don't know, MacLeod, let's say it looked just like the one in the picture."

"Did it?"

"For the sake of the story, we'll say it did."

MacLeod leaned back in his chair with a resigned expression. Joe and Richie watched the exchange with interest.

"Ahmed looked at Herger in dismay. 'I cannot lift this!' he exclaimed.

"Herger, his normal good spirits revived by the news that there would be no mist, clapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Grow stronger! Come, let us tell Buliwyf the night will be clear.'

"'Why?' Ahmed demanded, hauling the sword and trying to keep up with Herger. 'Why do you fear the mist?'

"'Fear? We do not fear the mist, little brother. Choose your words more carefully. There are those here who question our bravery as it is. The Bear People only attack under cover of the mist. We need at least another day to rebuild the defenses here.'

"'Who are the Bear People?' Ahmed was excited to finally get some real information.

'Half man, half bear, they say,' Herger answered diffidently. 'They have always dwelt on the land. Sometimes near here, sometimes they plague others. They have been stealing Hrothgar's men away in raids in the night.'

"'What do they do with them?'

"'They eat them, little brother. Men are their favorite food.'

"'You cannot be serious!'

"'Oh but I am.'

"'Then this is the evil that you warriors feared? The evil that has returned?'

"'No,' said Herger, 'the Bear People are known throughout these lands. They can be fought.'

"'Then what was it? What could be worse than eaters of flesh?'

"'The curse,' said Herger, and left Ahmed standing just inside the Hall as he went to seek out Buliwyf.


End file.
